


Walking On Rooftops

by potterswinchesters



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive John Winchester, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Angel Castiel (Supernatural), Bisexual Dean Winchester, Brotherly Love, Castiel Loves Humanity, Castiel Saves Dean Winchester, Dead Sam Winchester, Depressed Dean Winchester, Depression, Drunk Dean Winchester, Emotionally Repressed Dean Winchester, Fallen Angel Castiel (Supernatural), Falling Angel Castiel (Supernatural), Guardian Angel Castiel (Supernatural), Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Jessica Moore & Dean Winchester Friendship, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Dean Winchester, Past Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester, Self-Destruction, Self-Hatred, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:22:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24097279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potterswinchesters/pseuds/potterswinchesters
Summary: Once there was a man who didn’t believe in Heaven; so he met an angel who believed in him first.When his younger brother Sam dies, Dean Winchester loses everything. As the last sliver of faith leaves him, Dean plunges into a sea of despair... until one day, in a haze of whiskey-induced delirium, he comes across a feather, burning on wet gravel, and beside it a hurricane-haired angel with scorched wings.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	Walking On Rooftops

Outside, it smells like rain.

 _Petrichor_. That’s what it’s called.

The only reason Dean knows is because Sam was a damn nerd. He loved nothing more than telling Dean random shit that no one else knew and that he thought was meaningful.

Dean doesn’t remember how it came up in the first place. Life is arduous, filled to the brim with moments that aren’t important enough to be remembered by anyone. So much is just lost. Though Dean cradles his final memories of Sam against his bones like his life depends on it, sometimes all that remain are the jagged edges.

So Dean fills in the blanks where the details have gotten lost.

Maybe he and Sam were sitting on the couch in Sam and Jessica’s apartment. Maybe Jess was out buying burgers and a six pack of beer for the three of them. Maybe Sam was studying: a textbook laid out on the coffee table, and his Bernese Mountain dog, Moose, curled into his side. Maybe the flowers were just beginning to bud and the sun, cowardly thing, was hiding behind some storm clouds.

* * *

_“This is exactly why I hate spring,” Dean grumbles, squinting out the window. The cushions of the chairs on the balcony are soaked. “It’s always raining, and the ground gets that damn smell.”_

_“You mean petrichor,” Sam responds, flipping to the next page of his textbook._

_Dean scrunches his nose up. “What the fuck is a petrichor?”_

_Sam glances up from his book and sends an exasperated look Dean’s way. “That smell after it rains. Dude, you literally just described it.”_

_“No, I mean, why do you even know that? I never even learned my SAT vocab words and you’re out here rememberin’ them fifty years later.”_

_“Some of us actually_ like _having an extensive vocabulary.”_

_“Friggin’ weirdo.”_

_“You’re really saying that to someone who knows the real reason you hate spring so much? I know you’re just scared of worms.”_

_Dean throws a glare in his brother’s direction. “Listen—they’re gross and wriggly and—”_

_“And when I threw one at you in high school, you puked in front of Cassie Robinson and all her friends.”_

_“It landed in my_ mouth _!” Dean yelps. “Right in it! All because of your shitty aim!”_

_“Hey, how do you know I wasn’t aiming for your mouth?” Sam asks._

_“Y’know, just for that I hope you fail your fucking exam._

_Sam’s laughter fills the apartment as Jess walks through the door._

* * *

Of course, the word itself doesn’t matter to Dean. Not really.

In fact, there isn’t much of anything that matters anymore. It doesn’t matter what the weather’s like, or how few meals he’s eaten in the past week, or what the name of the last woman he hooked up with was. It doesn’t even matter if the world’s about to end—and if it is, good riddance to the wretched thing.

The gravel beneath Dean’s feet is still wet, but the clouds have parted so that the white light of the moon is reflected in the puddles. Dean’s drunkenness distorts the stars; they twirl and spin before his eyes like a light show until the nausea hits, crashing over him like waves meeting the shore. He turns his gaze back to the ground and decides he doesn’t like the stars anymore. He wishes he could turn them off.

He licks his cracked lips and tastes metal. A crooked smile finds its way onto his face, and he isn’t sure why but suddenly he’s laughing. It’s all a joke and everything is wrong. His little brother is dead and rotting in the fucking ground and those gross wriggly worms are probably eating his face, they’re probably—

It’s funny until it isn’t, until Dean leans over and retches all over the gravel.

Tonight, he entered The Roadhouse with the intention of getting blind drunk until he couldn’t feel anymore. It’s become a bit of a habit that he can’t kick ever since Sammy died. It’s the best way he can think of to numb the pain while simultaneously torturing himself—he likes the airy feeling alcohol gives him at the beginning, but he hates the dry heaving and pounding headaches that follow soon after.

Dean stumbles forward a few more steps and blinks something on the ground into focus.

It’s a feather. Burning.

Curiosity gets the best of Dean. He stoops down to touch it, wondering if the flame is real. Wondering if he’s drunk enough that he won’t feel it.

But then movement catches his eye. He drags his gaze just a few feet further, and his eyes are met with a male figure, sprawled across the gravel. The figure is unmoving… except for a pair of charred, twitching wings.

The gravel sways beneath Dean’s feet. His legs finally give out and he falls to the ground, ripping holes in his jeans and grazing his knees on the way down.

He manages to scramble to his feet.

The figure is still there.

For a moment, he wonders if he should help it up, but instead finds himself rooted firmly in place. So instead, he watches.

After a minute or two, it rises to its feet. With the wings no longer obstructing Dean’s view, he can see that he’s naked.

If he was sober, he would’ve squared his jaw and walked the other way, and tried his hardest not to let this stir up those hidden desires. But he’s drunk and depressed, and the man isn’t _real_ anyway, so Dean feels no guilt in admitting to himself that he is mesmerized and simply too weak to look away.

There is no one else around. No one else to watch the scorched wings extending, the night breeze peeling pieces of ash away. No one else to see the jet black hair, mussed as though caressed by a hurricane.

No one else to feel the burn of a pair of blue eyes.

Only Dean.

For a moment, the eyes are the only thing that Dean can see, and he becomes convinced that the sky is black because those eyes leeched all the blue from it. He feels the strangest sensation, like they are ripping into him. Stripping the skin from his bones. Reaching right down to his ravaged soul. The sensation is not unpleasant; it’s remarkable, and suddenly he’s terrified.

This thing can’t be an angel, but goddammit, it looks just like what Dean would imagine a fallen angel to look like.

He licks his vomit-glazed lips and presses his fingers into his eyes until he sees stars.

When he looks back one last time, the figure is gone.

He lets out a low whistle. “I must be really fucked up, Sammy,” he mumbles.

That night, he dreams that he and his brother are walking on rooftops.

His heart falters every time Sam jumps from roof to roof. He struggles to follow, calling to him over and over, only to be ignored. Then Sam teeters dangerously close to the edge of one roof and dips his foot over it, as though tempting fate.

 _“Sammy, stay away from the edge,”_ Dean tells his brother in the dream. _“I can’t save you if you fall, Sammy. Sammy, please, I don’t have wings.”_

Sam is a man himself, but Dean is still forced to watch him slip and plummet to the ground as though he is nothing but a child forgotten by the angels.

Dean wakes up in the backseat of his ’67 Chevy Impala, tear tracks running down his cheeks. Eyelids crusted shut.

It’s the first dream he’s been able to remember in months.


End file.
